Category Archives: Breakfast & Brunch

I am the kind of person that will buy a tub of miso, then leave it in the refrigerator door for an interminable length of time, under the naïve assumption that it will (eventually) find its way into a recipe. If you’re like me, you know that this moment rarely, if ever, comes. You also know that it leaves you with bad feelings when you do a deep clean of the fridge and realise it’s been there for a small eternity, opened, but with only one spoonful scooped out from the top. You ask yourself the following questions: Is it still good? How do I know it’s still good? Do I need to throw it out? Then concede to the following affirmations: Online message boards about expiration dates cannot be trusted. I’m going to need to throw this out. I am a horrible human being for throwing this out.

It’s a vicious cycle.

I’m not quite sure what happens in the ark of purchasing the miso, bringing it home, then, months later, scraping it into the bin. It’s confounding. Not to mention a heinous act of food waste. (especially considering that miso paste could probably out-live you and me and I’ve just been overly cautious about its perishability). And so, I’ve decided that from this day forward, I will never throw out another container of miso. Cross my heart and hope to die.

I come to you today with proof of my penance – two recipes made recently with the stash of miso paste in my fridge, both having helped put a considerable dent in my supply, all while broadening my miso repertoire (did you know you can use it in savoury and sweet dishes? And not just in miso soup?). I feel that this is the beginning of a new relationship.

One is a carrot soup with ginger, spiced with coriander and curry. The miso works nicely in the background, adding a bit of depth to a soup that might otherwise be ho-hum. The other is a recipe for banana bread (or cake, depending on your sensibilities), where the saltiness of the miso balances out the sweetness of the banana. I brought a loaf to my friends Marko and Marilou as part of a care package the week after their daughter was born and received a text from them the next day saying they’d polished it off, the last couple of slices served up for breakfast, toasted and slathered in butter.

I hope you’ll do the same x

Miso Banana Bread – from Amelia Morris of Bon Appetempt

5 medium overripe bananas

1 cup all-purpose flour*

½cup whole-wheat flour

¼ cup of ground flax seeds

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

1 stick unsalted butter, softened

1 cup sugar

¼ cup white (or yellow) miso

½ whole-milk plain yogurt

2 large eggs

*If you prefer, you can replace the whole-wheat flour and ground flax seeds with all-purpose flour (so 1¾ cups of all-purpose flour total)

Directions

1) Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter a loaf pan, dust with a light coating of flour and set aside.

2) Mash 4 of the bananas in a bowl. Set aside

3) Mix all the dry ingredients (except the sugar) in a separate bowl. Set aside.

4) In the bowl of a stand mixer (or, simply, another bowl). Combine the softened butter, miso. Beat until light and fluffy (about 5 mins). Add the yogurt, then one egg at a time, beating between additions. Beat in mashed bananas. Then mix in the dry ingredients until just combined.

5) Transfer batter to prepared loaf pan. Slice remaining banana lengthwise and place on top of the batter. Bake for about 45 minutes (or until a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean). Let cool on a baking rack for 20-30 minutes before serving.

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Miso Carrot Soup – adapted from Wholehearted Eats

Serves 4-6

1 yellow onion, chopped

3 garlic cloves, chopped

1 Tbsp. olive oil

8 large carrots, peeled and chopped (about 5 cups)

1 Tbsp curry powder (optional)

½ tsp. dried coriander

2-inch piece of ginger, peeled and minced

6-7 cups stock, vegetable or chicken

3 Tbsp. white miso paste

1 tsp. tamari

garnishes: lemon wedges, cilantro, sesame seeds

Directions

1) Heat a medium pot to low and add the oil and onion. Sweat the onion until soft, translucent and golden. Add the garlic, dried coriander, curry (if using) and the minced ginger. Sauté for a couple of minutes until fragrant, stirring occasionally. Add the chopped carrots and sauté cook for few more minutes.

2) Next add 5 cups of the stock and bring the mixture to a simmer. Once it begins to simmer, cover with lid slightly ajar, and let it cook until the carrots and onions are very tender (about 3o minutes).

3) Take the soup off the heat and puree it in a blender or hand blender, until smooth. Bring the remaining 1-2 cups stock (if you like a thicker or thinner soup) to a boil, take it off the heat, and stir in the miso and tamari until combined. Add this mixture to the soup and stir to combine. To serve, add a squeeze of lemon, some sesame seeds and fresh cilantro.

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You’re having friends over for dinner and you want to make something nice. But it’s a work night, a Thursday, so you’re already a bit bagged, and a little unmotivated, thinking about the Jenga tower of dishes that will invariably pile up in the sink if you start making something quote-unquote fancy.

This is when you need to pull a rabbit (or two) out of your hat to successfully fake your way to a meal fit for dinner guests – a meal that will involve minimal amounts of messing around in the kitchen, but will look and taste a little more special than the everday.

There are, of course, different ways you can do this. For starters, if you’re committed to the idea of using the oven, you can choose recipes that compliment eachother’s cooking time and temperature; that way, you can cook a couple of things at the same time, and even bake dessert at the end, with that still-warm oven. The other advantage is that you can slide whatever you’re making into the oven, let it work its magic, and go back to the things you were doing beforehand, like the multi-tasking mavrick you are.

We all have different shortcuts in the kitchen, which is nice, because it means that we can learn from eachother’s acumen – that mental Roladex of tips and tricks we’ve stockpiled over the years. Below you’ll find a few of my own back-pocket recipes (the rabbits up my sleeve, if you will) for when I’m having people over, but don’t want to fuss. It’s a simple potato and roast chicken dinner that can be served with a green salad or some steamed vegetables. The potatoes can be slipped into the oven about 30-40 minutes after the chicken. The dessert is easy too – no need to wrangle dough or batter, just toss some sugared apples onto some prepared puff pastry and watch it pouf up in the oven after the potatoes and chicken have come out.

All of it gives you more time to be with your guests, which, let’s be honest, is the most important part.

FAKING FANCY TIP NO.1 – RE-VAMPING THE HUMBLE POTATO

Potatoes, simply prepared, often come in two forms – boiled, or diced and roasted. Both of these options have virtues of their own, but there’s another variation on the potato that should be on everyone’s radar, and that, dear people, is the smashed potato. I first learned about smashed potatoes during a period in the mid-2000s when I binge-watched Laura Calder‘s French Food at Home, before food blogging and celebrity chef-dom had exploded and you could actually rely on The Food Network for quality programming (wow, can you hear the octogenarian coming through? Don’t get her started on styrofoam food packaging). The Food Network aside, Laura Calder is known in her own right for her pared-down, no-nonsense – and très, très français – approach to food, where the most important elements are quality of ingredients and method, as opposed to flashy additions or lengthy processes. Her smashed potatoes (she calls them “squished” potatoes) are simplicity incarnate, but the nice thing is that they are just the slightest bit different than a boiled or a roasted potato, because they’re in fact BOTH: you take some nice, small, waxy potatoes, skin-on, and let them cook in boiling water until just tender. Then you drain them, set them on a work surface and gently press each one with whatever sturdy kitchen equipment you have on hand (I like using the bottom of a cast iron pan), dress them with olive oil, a sprinkle of salt (I add fresh rosemary too), then lay them on a baking sheet and toss them into a hot oven for 30-40 minutes, turning once halway though. The beauty of the smashed potato is that you get a tender interior and these lacy, crispy edges. They also look more interesting than a in-tact boiled potato, sort of more lived-in and wild. And they are a treat to eat.

SMASHED BABY POTATOES WITH ROSEMARY – from Laura Calder

2 lb baby potatoes

olive oil

flaky salt (such as Maldon)

freshly ground pepper

a couple spring of fresh rosemary

1) Scrub the potatoes and cook, unpeeled, in boiling salted water until tender. Drain. When cool enough to touch, gently squish them flat with whatever kitchen tool you see fit. Don’t let them explode, just flatten until the edges break a bit, but they are still in one piece. Toss with some olive oil, the rosemary sprigs, and season with salt and pepper.

2) Heat the oven to 400°F. Spread the potatoes on a baking sheet and bake for about 30-40 minutes, or until crisp outside, turning once halfway through.

(*I didn’t get a chance to capture the finished result, so you’ll have to use your imagination – but they come out crackly, crispy, dark golden on the outside. A bit knarly, but beautiful.)

—–FAKING FANCY TIP no.2 – ELEVATING ROAST CHICKEN

Let’s be honest, there’s nothing particularly spectacular about roast chicken in and of itself. But if done right, roast chicken can be one of the most delicious things you’ll put on the table, especially if you employ a good, healthy dose of butter. Here too, you have different options. Molly Wizenburg has a recipe for Thomas Keller’s roast chicken where you slather it with melted butter after it’s cooked and serve it with Dijon mustard (which, though I’ve never tried it, actually sounds pretty wicked). My usual fall-back is smearing butter under the skin, along the breastbone, before cooking. For added flavour, I like to use compound butter – in other words, softened, unsalted butter that you mix with herbs, or zest, or other seasonings. The butter “insulates” the breast meat (which tends to get dry) from the heat of the oven, while permeating it with rich flavour. You don’t want to be using butter like this everyday (you’d be well on your way to a heart attack), but for occasions that are out of the ordinary – say, having friends over on a Thursday night – it’s a lovely way to make roast chicken a little more frilly.

1) Take your chicken out of the fridge about 30 minutes before it goes into the oven.

2) Preheat the oven to 400ºF. Mix the chopped herbs with the softened butter, season with salt and pepper and stir to combine; set aside. In a small dish, mix some salt, freshly ground pepper and the paprika (if using). Prepare two lengths of kitchen twine to wrap the legs and the thighs.

3) Set aside a roasting pan big enough for your chicken. Blot the outside of the chicken with paper towel (removing excess moisture will help ensure a crispy skin). Season the chicken with the prepared salt, pepper and paprika. With the cavity of the chicken facing you, gently run your fingers under the skin along the breastbone, separating the skin from the meat. Then, gently stuff portions of herbed butter under the skin, spreading it evenly over the breast meat. Put the garlic cloves and lemon in the cavity of the chicken.

4) Tie the legs together snugly (this prevents the bird from drying out). If the lower half of the chicken looks like it’s still pretty loose, I sometimes tie a second piece of twine around the top of the thighs. Place the chicken in the preheated oven and roast for an hour to an hour and fifteen minutes (see note below*), basting a couple of times during cooking. Once the chicken is cooked, remove from the oven and let rest for about 15 minutes before carving. Serve with the pan juices.

A note on cooking whole chicken: total cooking time will vary, depending on the actual size of your chicken, as well as the intensity of your oven. A good rule of thumb is to calculate 15 mins per pound at 400ºF, but I use a meat thermometer just to be sure – it should read 165ºF* when inserted into the thickest part of the thigh but not touching bone. (*A lot of thermometers and government sources will give 180ºF as the ideal internal tempertaure, but they are usually overly-cautious (resulting in over-cooked, dry meat). If you pull it out when it reaches 165ºF and then let it rest, covered, for about 10-15 minutes, you’ll be good to go. The juices should run clear, not pink, when you cut into it.)

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FAKING FANCY TIP no.3 – USING FROZEN PUFF PASTRY

When you’re having people over, it’s sometimes nice to have something sweet at the end of dinner, but making a cake or a pie or something along those lines can be more work than it’s worth – the careful combining, the chilling, the rolling, the aforementioned sink full of dishes. This is when frozen puff pastry becomes a trusty pal – once thawed, it’s at your service and ready to use. The best part is that the free-form styling of the outer edges means that you can very easily get away with calling it “rustic”. Adding a quick dusting of powdered sugar to your finished tart (or any dessert for that matter) will make it look like a snowy, Scandanavian dream. I highly recommend it.

*one of the luxuries of living in Montreal is that many of us are within a stone’s throw of a bakery, many of which sell prepared puff pastry. If you don’t have a bakery close-by, you should be able to find puff pastry in the frozen foods section of most grocery stores.)

Directions

1) Preheat the oven to 400ºF. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a Silpat. In a bowl, add a sqeeze of lemon juice to the apple slices, then add both sugars, the melted butter, the rum, and gently combine; set aside.

2) On a lightly floured surface, unfold the puff pastry sheet. Roll it out a little bit (to about 1/2 inch thick). You should have a long rectangle about as long as a standard baking sheet (I don’t measure). Roll about 1 inch of the edges inward to form a border (or, if you prefer, you can lightly score a border along the inside of the rectangle, as this video demonstrates). Poke the inner rectangle all over with a fork to prevent air bubbles from forming while baking.

3) Layer the apple slices, overlapping them slightly. Bake for 25 minutes, until crust is golden brown, then transfer the pan to a wire rack. Once cool, dust with powdered sugar, the transfer tart to a cutting board for serving. Pairs well with vanilla ice cream (obviously).

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I’ve long held the belief that muffins are more or less just cake disguised as breakfast food. Most muffins I’ve come across in bakeries and cafés have an ultra-sweet crumb, studded with the usual flecks of fruit and nut, but more often than not, chocolate too (in different variations of the same theme – chocolate/banana, double chocolate and chocolate chip are the first ones to come to mind). The most confusing kinds have things like “cheesecake” centres, or grainy strusel toppings that are ninety-nine percent sugar. In a lot of ways, muffins have become the antithesis of sensible eating. Because if something like this can be called a muffin, clearly we’ve derailed somewhere along the way.

When I think of the ideal breakfast muffin – the Platonic ideal – it has to have a bit of brawn, something nutritious that will sustain me for the better part of the morning when paired with whatever fruit is in the fruit bowl. The Platonic Muffin incorporates a type of flour that has some substance, some oumf (whole wheat, for instance) and a few octogenarian-approved ingredients like oat bran and dried fruit. The crumb shouldn’t be too sweet, and while nuts are welcome, chocolate and candy are not invited to the party. In other words, I want the kind of muffin that will lift me in the morning, when my eyes are half-mast in front of the computer, and the synapses in my brain aren’t yet at full throttle; I want it to give me a boost and make me feel productive; I want a muffin I can rely on.

Flipping through my cookbooks a few weekends ago, I came across Sara Forte’s Multigrain Muffin – a simple, but sturdy-looking thing that combines carrot, dates and buttermilk into the batter (ding ding ding!), along with different types of flour (ding ding ding!). Her cookbook, The Sprouted Kitchen: A Tastier Take on Whole Foods, is what I would call a book of healthy recipes – for the better part vegetarian, some raw, and (as laid out explicity in the title) all containing whole, unprocessed ingredients. Now, while I can get behind all of that, I sometimes have concerns about baked goods being labelled “healthy”, because it often means they taste like cardboard and have a mouthfeel akin to dry soil. But thankfully, this isn’t the case with these muffins- the use of different flours results in a balanced texture, the carrots and dates add sweetness without it tasting saccharine, and the buttermilk makes the whole thing moist and melt-in-your-mouth. It’s the kind of breakfast food that pushes all the right buttons.

This post isn’t sponsored by Sara or her cookbook; it’s just that since these muffins have been on heavy rotation at our house over the last little while, I felt it was my duty – as keeper of this blog – to share them with you instead of keeping them all to myself.

You can see this as a muffin PSA, from your local food nerd.

I hope you’ll give them a whirl.

Multigrain Buttermilk Muffins with Carrot and Dates
Adapted from The Sprouted Kitchen: A Tastier Take on Whole Foods
Makes 12 muffins

1 cup buttermilk*

1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/4 cup finely chopped, pitted Medjool (or fresh) dates

1 1/2 cups loosely packed grated carrots**

3/4 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

3/4 cup oat bran

1/2 cup almond meal

1/2 cup muscovado sugar (I used raw sugar)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon salt

* to make 1 cup of buttermilk, simply pour whole milk almost to one cup, topping up with about 1/2 Tbsp white vinegar. Let sit for a minute (it will curdle a bit), then it’s ready to be used in your baking.

**use the smaller holes of your box grater for this; the carrot will blend better into the batter.

Directions

Preheat oven to 350F.

In a large bowl whisk together the first four ingredients. Add the dates and carrots and stir until combined. In another mixing bowl whisk together the remaining ingredients. Add the carrot-date mixture into the dry and stir until combined. Let the batter sit for 5 minutes to poof up a bit.

Line muffin pan with baking papers. Fill the papers 3/4 way up with batter. Bake for 20 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Remove the pan from the oven and transfer muffins to a cooling rack. Can be stored for 3-4 days in an airtight container.

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A friend of mine had a little boy just a over two weeks ago now – a beautiful little chicken of a baby, with soft cheeks, delicate fingers and the requisite new-baby smell. He is definitely a sight to behold, with his miniature yawns and peach-fuzz hair. Regardless of a few nicks from his sharp newborn nails – and a few surprise vibrations from his diaper – he charmed me through and through, in that way that babies are preternaturally good at, without even trying.

With the mini baby boom happening in my circle of friends right now, the one thing I’ve come to understand is just how precious the resources of time and energy are to new moms and dads. Squeezing in a shower or running an errand are rare opportunities that are seized with an acute sense appreciation, if not urgency. Other activities, namely, making a full meal, are easily relegated to the back-burner (sorry for the pun). I’ve heard that a banana and a box of crackers will suffice when you’ve been on four-hour sleep cycles – at best! – and have a little person who needs you in a way that no one else has before.

Knowing that my friend and her husband were busy acclimatising to their new unit of three (diapers, feedings, and all the rest of it), I thought I should come equipped with couple of homemade treats – things that could be frozen or eaten as-is, without any prep, aside from a quick re-heating. In fact, it’s also the kind of food any non-parent would want in the fridge or freezer on those frantically busy days when they don’t have one more ounce to give.

Parent or non-parent, this soup and this cake are my virtual gifts to you. Enjoy xx

Turkish Lentil Soup – makes 4-6 servings

225 grams red lentils (approx 1 1/8 cups)

1 medium onion, finely chopped

1 stalk celery, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced in half lengthwise

2 Tbsp tomato paste

1-2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1.5 litres vegetable stock (plus 1-2 cups more, as needed)

1 small piece ginger, grated

2 tsp ground cumin

2 tsp curry powder

1-2 tsp paprika

1 tsp mustard seeds

Fresh mint (or cilantro) and lemon to serve

Salt and pepper

Directions

1) Set the vegetable stock in a pot on medium heat to warm up.

2) Heat the olive oil in a large pot, and sauté the vegetables with the garlic cloves, for about 10 minutes. Add tomato paste, spices and grated ginger, and cook for a few more minutes. Add lentils, washed and drained, and cover with hot vegetable stock.

3) Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer with the lid on for about 30 or 40 minutes, until the lentils begin to fall apart. Add more stock if they look a bit dry (just remember it should be a soup-like consistency). Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

4) Set aside two or three ladles of soup, and puree the rest in a blender (optional).

5) Serve with chopped fresh mint (or cilantro) and lemon juice. Do not skip this – it’s what makes all the difference!

1) Preheat the oven to 350˚F.
2) Place the overripe bananas into a mixing bowl and beat until puréed. Add the vanilla, coconut oil, and sugar, and beat again until combined.
3) Fold in the flour, raising agents, salt, and walnuts until thoroughly combined.
4) Fold in the chopped Medjool dates and shredded coconut; pour the batter into a loaf tin lined with parchment paper.
5) Bake for 45 mins to an hour, or until skewer comes out clean, cool on wire rack.

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My younger brother and I grew up in a large split-level bungalow in the suburbs outside of Montreal. It didn’t have a white picket fence, but it was flanked by tall weeping birches, big swaths of grass and a cherry tree that bore bright red fruit right around mid-July. From the time we were born, until the time we each turned eighteen, it was the one and only house we’d ever lived in – the one with the family room fireplace and the secret cedar closet disguised as a bookshelf; the one with the damp-ish basement that always gave us the creeps and the “GARDE AU CHIEN” sign on the garage door left by the previous owner (which we kept, despite never owning a dog).

A few short years after we’d flown the coop, my parents decided to sell the split-level bungalow for the same reason most empty-nesters do – too much space for too few people. It was a process that I’d been largely removed from, having just moved in with my college boyfriend at the same time that I’d started my first desk job out of university. But we did come back to the house from time to time, for dinners and birthdays and for the occasional dip in the pool. Once the house went on the market, though, it suddenly became a very different place to be in. This space that was once ours would soon belong to another family, with new sets of feet padding the floors, new laughter, new smells. It was an odd thing to consider, but it was something that would float into my thoughts with every visit, when I’d sink my toes into the grey carpet of my old bedroom, or hear the antique clock chime in the dining room with that deep, guttural bong, bong, bong – both familiar and foreboding.

The house stayed on the market for several months. I want to say that it was close to a year, but my recollection of the exact time frame is a bit fuzzy. I do remember there being a pyrite problem that was discovered late in the game, changing the terms of the sale and the balance in negotiations. I remember that it was a year in favour of buyers, not sellers. I remember that the first real estate agent was a total nightmare and that there were times when the sale of the house felt like it would be in perpetual limbo. But I also remember that, throughout the highs and lows of the house-selling process, my mother baked. And baked. And baked. Before every open house, she’d have something sweet rising in the oven – a lemon loaf, a coffee cake, a pan of blueberry muffins. Initially, I thought it was mom just being mom – the ultimate hostess – but as it tuns out, her objective was strategic. By her logic, filling the house with the warm aroma of baked goods would encourage prospective buyers to – at least subconsciously – feel at home.

It was quite the trick.

The house did eventually sell – to a young family with two kids, a boy and a girl, mirroring our own family unit of four. And while there’s no way of knowing if their choice was influenced by the scent of buttered scones or a batch of oatmeal cookies crisping up in the oven, I suspect it couldn’t have hurt.

—–

All this came to mind a couple of weeks ago, when I was staring slack-jawed at all the boxes on the floor of our new apartment, overcome by that uneasy, post-move feeling where no place feels like home. I knew that if I was going to wrap my head (and my heart) around this new space, I had to take a cue from my mother and – for lack of a better word – “trick” myself into making it feel like home. And so, one quiet evening after work, I plunked my purse onto the floor, flipped on the radio, threw on an apron, and started fiddling in the cupboard for some flour, sugar, walnuts and dried figs – the few ingredients that had made the trip from the old apartment. I also happened to have a Goliath-sized zucchini on hand, recently excavated from Sophie‘s garden; that got shredded and tossed into a bowl alongside two eggs, some yogurt and a bit of brown sugar. The batter was stirred together and scooped into a greased loaf pan, then slid into the oven, where it baked low and slow for the better part of an hour. As the apartment gradually filled with the heady scent of sugar caramelising in the oven, things started to feel a little more familiar and a little less alien. Having something ticking away in there made everything inside these four walls feel more like home. My home. Our home.

There might still be dozens of books on the dining room floor and old wine boxes filled with miscellaneous cooking gear. But we’re getting there. And the kitchen turned out to be a good place to start.

1) Place a wire rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 350°F. Coat a 8 1/2″ x 4 1/2″ loaf pan with a little oil and dust with a little flour.

2) Trim the ends off the zucchini and grate them into fine shreds. Transfer the zucchini into a larger strainer lined with cheesecloth or muslin (or, my personal favourite – a Du-Rag!). Bring the ends of the cheesecloth together and squeeze the zucchini to release as much as liquid as possible. Discard the liquid (or freeze in an ice-cube tray for later use in a vegetable stock) and place the shredded zucchini in a large mixing bowl.

3) Add the chopped dried figs to the zucchini along with the eggs, oil, vanilla, sugar and yogurt. Mix with a wooden spoon until combined.

4) In a separate bowl, whisk the flours, ginger powder, nutmeg, salt, baking soda, and baking powder. Gradually combine the flour mixture into the wet ingredients. Fold the walnuts into the batter and then transfer the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Place the thinly sliced whole figs in a single center row on top of the batter in the pan.

5) Bake for about 45-50 minutes, rotating once during the baking process. To test for doneness, stick a knife in the centre – if it comes out clean (with a few crumbs), it’s done. Allow the bread to cool for 10 minutes in the pan and the run the edges of a knife around the cake. Remove and allow the bread to cool on a wire rack. Keeps for 3-4 days at room temperature.

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I’m a wimp when it’s come to those two words. As much as I like cooking, I’ve carefully avoided breadmaking for years, mostly for fear that it’s a labour-intensive process requiring special types of flour, fancy fresh yeast, elaborate kneading and expensive pieces of machinery, like electric bread makers and large mixers with paddle attachments. And that would just be to get the starter dough going. After that, there’d the issue of rising: Does it have to rise in a low heat oven? What if I don’t have a bread-proof setting on my oven? What if I kill the yeast?How will I know if I’ve killed the yeast? And so on and so forth.

Despite all this, I somehow own three cookbooks on bread – including Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads, Soups and Stews, a hefty tome that has sat on the shelf undisturbed, for four wholewinters now. I have an entire Pinterest board dedicated to bread, a place where I’ve been quietly stockpiling all sorts of recipes for leavened dough – from densely-flavoured sourdough to crackly baguette to Japanese milk toast – none of which I’ve actually made. But, despite my trepidation, I’m clearly interested in bread – the traditions, the techniques, the delicate alchemy that allows a sticky mass to transform into something crispy and chewy and ethereally light, all at once. It’s a magical beast. The unicorn of food. I’ve just been too timid to get close to it.

Then one day, out of nowhere, I decided to just effing do it already. It happened when I was making lunch with my mom over a long weekend this May:

Me: So, what if I made bread today?
Mom: Yeah, sure. If you want something easy, you should try that no-knead one Mark Bitterman did for the New York Times.
Me: You mean Mark Bittman?
Mom: Yeah, yeah…him. Anyways, it’s so easy. Seriously. There’s a video too. (she finds me the video online). Here, watch it. It’s all there. It’s super simple, you’ll see.

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of this no-knead recipe. My mom’s been a big proponent of it for years. It’s a version of the old European clay-pot method, modernised by baker Jim Lahey, of Sullivan Street Bakery in Manhattan, and then popularised by Mark Bittman when he did a piece on it for The New York Times. In the video, Lahey walks us through his recipe, step by step, starting with the introductory promise that it’s so incredibly easy, “even a six year-old” (“or a four-year old!”) can make it.

With that bold endorsement in mind, I figured that if any recipe was going to help me cross the threshold into breadmaking, this would be it. The simplicity of Lahey’s recipe is what ultimately sold me. You don’t need to muck around with special bread flour or proofing or extraneous kneading, nor do you need an expensive mixer or a professional oven. All you need is –

flour
yeast
salt
water
your two hands

That, and a screaming-hotcast-iron Dutch oven. The cast-iron is an important part of the alchemy in this bread recipe, creating just the right amount of steam to get an airy interior and a crisp exterior. The idea is you set the pot in a 500ºF oven until it reaches temp, then toss in your dough (cover on for a bit, then cover off) and bake on high heat until the bread becomes crackly and lightly caramelised on the outside. Cast-iron pots retain heat extremely well, mimicking the qualities of a stone oven and a steam-injected oven at the same time. So, whether you’re a six year-old, or a four year-old (or even a monkey), the cast-iron pot will help your first attempt at bread look like this:

It’s seriously one of the easiest things you’ll ever make. And when you’re cracking into that first piece of freshly baked bread, straight from your oven, you’ll be so happy you made a go of it.

Happy baking, friendlies x

—–

Notes on the recipe:

the dough needs at least 12 hours for the first rise, then another 2 hours for the second rise. Start the night before and let it rise overnight. The longer you let the dough rise (min. 12 hours, max 24 hours), the more flavourful it will become.

when my mom discovered this recipe, she quickly starting making her own adaptations, one of which resulted in a drop-dead gorgeous focaccia recipe. All you need to is add a bit of olive oil to the dough and stretch it out on a pizza pan for baking. (I’ve included her recipe for a cherry tomato version below). If you decide to make both the bread and the focaccia, just double the dough recipe.

Note on Dutch ovens: if you don’t already have one, it’s an insanely useful kitchen tool have. They’re especially practical in the winter – to make soups, stews, curries – but are a must-have for this bread recipe. If you’re worried about the financial commitment, remember that you don’t need to buy the top-of-the-line models (the ones that can go for upwards of $350 a pop); I got a Lagostina version on sale at Canadian Tire for $90 and it works like a charm. They usually come with a 10 or 25-year (and sometimes, lifetime) guarantee, so they’re in it for the long haul. Just make sure that you get one with a 500ºF-resistant metal knob on the cover so that you can make your bread (the ones that come with a hard plastic knob are no bueno).

1) In a mixing bowl combine the flour, yeast and salt and blend with a whisk.

2) Pour in 1 1/2 cup of water and mix with a wooden spoon. Scrape any excess flour from the bottom and sides of the bowl, making sure the ingredients are well incorporated and form into a ball. The dough will have a stringy texture.

3) Place a piece of plastic wrap on the bowl to avoid the dough from drying out. Allow to rise in a warm dry, and draft free place for at least 12 hours and up to 24 hours. (I left mine at room-temperature on the counter-top overnight.)

STEP 2 – FOLDING & SECOND RISING

1) Dust a large piece of parchment paper, measuring about 24 inches with flour to prevent the dough from sticking during its second rising. Scrape the risen dough onto the floured parchment paper.

2) Sprinkle some flour on the dough and on your hand to prevent sticking. Lightly pat down the dough with your hands to form a piece measuring approximately 10 x 10 inches.

3) Fold one side to the centre; then fold the other side to meet the edge of the first side, like a book (see images below). Take the top edge and fold to the centre; take the bottom edge and fold to meet the top edge.

4) Turn the dough and place the folded side of the dough on the parchment paper and dust with flour to prevent sticking. Loosely wrap the dough in the parchment paper and place on a baking sheet. Cover with a tea towel. Transfer to a warm and dry place and allow to rise a second time (2 hours).

STEP 3 – BAKING

1) Place the cast iron Dutch oven with its cover, on the second rack from the bottom of the oven. Preheat the oven to 500ºF. Dust the smooth side of the risen dough with flour to prevent it from sticking to the bottom while baking.

2) Once the oven reaches the required temperature. Remove the pot from the oven and take the cover off. Place the dough, folded side up into the pot and cover. Bake for 30 minutes at 500ºF.

3) Remove the cover, reduce the heat to 450º F and bake for an additional 15-30 minutes until the crust becomes golden brown. To check if the bread is cooked, remove the loaf from the pot and tap the bottom with a knife – if it sounds hollow, the bread should be done. Cool on a baking rack.

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Mom’s Cherry Tomato Focaccia – makes one 12″ pie

2 cups cherry tomatoes, cut in half

1 garlic clove, finely minced

1 Tbsp dried oregano

3 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil (plus a little more for the topping)

2 Tbsp grated Parmigiano Reggiano

1/4 cup sliced bocconcini or cubed mozzarella

salt flakes and freshly ground pepper (to taste)

1) Follow the directions for bread in the recipe above, adding 3 Tbsp of olive oil to the dough when you add the water.

2) After the first rise (see directions above), transfer the dough to a greased and floured 12″ pizza tray. Dust the dough lightly with flour, and with your hands spread out to the edges of the pizza pan. Place in a draft-free place to allow to rise a second time (2 hours).

3) While the dough is rising, prepare the topping by adding the prepared tomatoes in a bowl and toss with a drizzle of olive oil, the Parmigiano Reggiano, bocconcini (or mozzarella), minced garlic, and oregano. Season with salt and pepper.

4) Once the dough has risen a second time (after 2 hours), preheat the oven to 500º F. Spread the tomato mixture gently over the focaccia dough and bake at 500º F for 15-20 minutes.

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I’ve fixated on these photos and this blank page for longer than I’m proud to admit. It’s been an uncomfortable dance – coming back to the page at least a half dozen times, starting, stopping, flipping sentences, deleting whole paragraphs, trying the whole thing over from scratch. At one point, I even poured myself a glass of bourbon, thinking that if nothing else was helping, it might. (It didn’t. I got heartburn instead). At that point, I started wishing I had a typewriter – not because I thought it would solve my writing issues, but because I fantasized about ripping the page from the machine’s roller, crumpling it into a ball, and tossing it unceremoniously into the trash can, along with my frustrations. A bit of visceral, paper-crunching therapy would be nice right now. Somehow, pressing down aggressively on the backspace button isn’t half as satisfying. But, this is real life, not a smoky film noir, so I’ll have to content myself with the sticky backspace button on my I’m-old-and-I-almost-died-but-haha-I’m-not-dead-yet-so-you’re-still-stuck-with-me-you-cheap-bastard! laptop. My only solace is knowing that we’re this much closer to getting to cake. Just a few more words and we’re there…

In the simplest of terms, what I’d like to tell you about this cake is this:

I think these three points form a pretty solid endorsement, especially when it comes to baked sweets, which often get a bad rap for being fussy. It’s a fail-proof, fool-proof dessert, capable of making anybody’s palate swoon. The batter bakes up fluffy and light, and the blueberries become nice and syrupy, crowning the top in a smooth, indigo-tinged layer. You’ll be grateful to know about this cake the moment you get invited to a last-minute dinner party, or picnic, or office gathering, and you’re asked to bring the dessert!! when really you were hoping they’d ask you to bring the wine and cheese. It’s a cake that comes together really quickly and without much mess, whether you’re a dessert-making novice or a baking pro who’s just feeling a little lazy that day. Once you lay that beautiful thing in front of your dining companions, the pieces will glide effortlessly, one by one, off the serving plate until all that’s left are a smattering of crumbs, blue-tinged lips and happy bellies.

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Quick note on the recipe: I’m still using frozen blueberries right now, since we’re not in blueberry season in Quebec yet, but the recipe works with either – fresh or frozen. It’s entirely up to you.

Quick note on the pictures: for the final result, you’ll have to use your imagination – the cake got flipped, berry-side up, onto a serving plate much later in the day and the camera wasn’t nearby. Which is ok, because darting for the camera might have ruined the moment. To give you an idea, it will more or less look like this. When you flip the cake, remember to be bold – lay a serving plate on top of the pan, keep one hand on the plate and one hand on the bottom of the cake pan, and flip, confidently and swiftly, in one go. If you’re worried about the berries sticking to the bottom of the pan, don’t fret – the butter at the bottom of the pan will ensure that the cake slips out of the pan without incident.

Like this:

Does it matter that it came from the (very boring) utilitarian impulse to rid my fridge of a 5lb bag of carrots? Or that it burnt a little along the edges because I forgot to set the timer? Or that the carrots strewn decoratively over the top came out a bit crisper than expected? No, none of the this matters. Because, it is, after all, still cake.

Glorious, glorious cake.

Or at least that’s what I’m calling it, even if it’s worlds apart from the butter-and-frosting YOLO carrot cake I made a few weeks ago (if that thing were a person, it’d be the first one to finish the keg at the party and do a cannonball in the deep end of the pool.)

No, this cake, this loaf, marches to the beat of a different drum.

The original recipe refers to it a “bread”, but I think it feels and tastes a lot closer to a pound cake, the only real difference being that you swap the pound of butter (hence, POUND cake) for one cup of olive oil. (cardiologists, rejoice.) To be clear, though, this isn’t exactly health-cake either. At least not in the strictest sense of the word. It’s still got white flour and sugar (one and a quarter cups to be precise!) and all that good stuff. Which brings me back to the reason I’m calling it “cake”. It’s got a very moist crumb – thanks to the olive oil – and crisp edges, making it perfect for dunking into coffee or tea. The fact that it’s jam-packed with strands of fresh carrot leads me to believe that it’s also perfectly acceptable to call it breakfast cake. (If you’re not convinced, just leave half a loaf in the copy room at work. By 9:30am, that thing will be demolished. Ta da! Breakfast for all!)

Olive Oil Carrot Cake – slightly adapted from Brooklyn Supper

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

1 tsp sea salt

½ tsp freshly grated nutmeg

½ tsp ground ginger

3 eggs

1 ¼ cups sugar

2 cups grated carrots

1 Tbsp lemon zest

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 cup extra virgin olive oil

1) Preheat oven to 350°F. Liberally butter a 9 x 5 inch loaf pan.

2) In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and soda, salt, and spices.

3) In a large bowl, beat eggs and sugar on low speed (or with a whisk). Add grated carrots, zest, and vanilla. Fold in half the flour, all of the olive oil, and then the remaining flour. Mix just until everything is well combined.

4) Spoon into prepared loaf pan and bake for 40 minutes. Pull bread from oven and carefully lay 3 or 4 candied carrot halves across the top; spoon 2 tablespoons of the syrup over the top. Put back into the oven, and bake 20 – 30 minutes more or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with just a few crumbs attached.

5) Cool for 20 minutes, and then flip out onto a platter or rack to cool completely.

For the Candied Carrots (optional)

4 small carrots

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

1) Trim the tops of the carrots, then peel and halve them. (if you’re using pretty, market-fresh carrots for this, you can leave a little spray of greens at the top.)

2) In a wide saucepan, heat the sugar and water over medium heat. When sugar has dissolved, add the carrots and turn heat down so that mixture bubbles ever so gently. Cook, swirling pan occasionally, for 20 minutes or until thinnest part of carrot is translucent.

Note: the carrot bread will keep for a few days, well-wrapped at room temperature.

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Like most kids, my brother and I spent our childhood and pre-teen years pleading for junk food. Fruit Roll-Ups, instant noodles, soda, Corn Pops – we wanted ALL of it. My mother, bearing the brunt of these junk food solicitations (“But everyone at school has them! Come onnnnnnn.”), was often the one who had to give the hard-line “no”. Despite all the begging and pleading (and possibly crying?), she stuck to her guns, filling the cart with items that were far removed from the world of high fructose corn syrup and red dye no.5.

Today, I’m thankful for her resolve. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom was trying to instill in us the importance of eating well, and more specifically, eating well at home. Apart from the occasional night out or birthday party at the local St-Hubert BBQ (chicken fingers! fries! bright pink dipping sauce!) or Pizza Hut (stuffed-crust Hawaiian! all-you-can-eat ice cream bar!), dinner, lunch and breakfast in our house was largely homemade. It was never something that, as a kid, I considered a luxury; it was just the way things were (plus, I still had my eye on those Fruit Roll-Ups). But as an adult, I look back on that time and realise how inconceivably lucky we were. Boeuf bourgignon, whole roast chicken, roast beef with Yorkshire puddings; hand-rolled perogis, homemade pasta, spanakopita, pilafs, patates dauphinoises; minestrone, split pea, tortellini and French onion soups; coffee cakes, bundt cakes, layered birthday cakes and strudel; sticky baked beans, omelettes, tea biscuits and blueberry pancakes on the weekend. This is just a glimpse of the dozens of different dishes mom has made for us and others over the years. And while all this was considered everyday food in her mind, it goes without saying that we ate like kings.

It shouldn’t be a surprise then to learn that my mom was the one who first introduced me to cooking. She taught me how to make a quick cheat’s buttermilk and wrap fresh herbs in cheescloth to make a bouquet garni. She’s shown me how to stuff and truss a turkey, wrangle a pot roast, whip meringue into stiff peaks, blanch and “shock” vegetables and throw together a killer pancake batter from scratch in two minutes flat. She introduced me to the terms deglaze, dredge, al dente, mirepoix, roux, bain-marie and taught me that the secret to perfect Christmas stuffing is found in a Simon and Garfunkel song. You can still catch her humming it, off-key, while she’s rummaging through the spice rack at Christmastime.

Mom’s always been at ease in the kitchen, whipping around from stovetop to fridge to pantry and back again in a blur of focused energy. She’s been fundamental to my culinary education and, when I call her in the middle of a kitchen meltdown, is still keen to answer my questions about oven temperature, butter conversions, baking alternatives and expiry dates. All the while, she’s encouraged me to be bold in the kitchen and to improvise when a recipe goes awry right before the guests arrive. Most importantly though, she’s shown me how food can be an expression of love, something that becomes so much more when it’s shared.

—–

Another thing my mother has tried to instill in us is the importance of birthdays – to take the time to celebrate them, preferably with a bottle of bubbly or, failing that, a dry martini. And food. There has to be food.

Today I want to take a moment to wish my mum a very happy birthday. We’re never quite sure how you manage to do it all, but thank you for all of it.

Love you with all my heart.

Mom’s Blueberry Pancakes – makes approx. 10-12

In our house, pancakes were never from a box, but always made from scratch and served with real maple syrup – from a tree, not from Aunt Jemima.

Mix dry ingredients and add the blueberries, tossing them to coat. In a separate bowl, beat the egg; add oil, vanilla and milk to the egg. Make a well in the dry ingredients and slowly add the egg-milk mixture. Stir quickly until the ingredients are just mixed and the batter is still lumpy.

Once the pan is hot, add a lump of butter. When the butter starts to bubble, add ladlefuls of batter to the pan. Cook until little bubbles start to form on the top, then flip.

Note: You can keep the pancakes in a low oven to keep them warm while the others cook.

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I’d like to start this post by outing my mother, who, upon seeing this batter in the baking tin, turned and said, unflinchingly, “those look like breasts”. It was very matter-of-fact, and not the least bit sophomoric, but now all I see when I look at this photo are pairs of ample breasts with shockingly red nipples.

Thanks, mom.

What you might also see in this photo – if your mind is far enough out of the gutter – are French madeleines, right before they were slid into the oven.

I took great care to make sure these turned out the way they were supposed to. It was my first attempt at madeleines, and since 1 out of 4 every baked goods I make either ends up soggy, or stodgy, or hard as a rock, I was determined not to screw it up. After all, I was dealing with a French classic. Its reputation was on the line.

To avoid any mishaps, I needed to eliminate the one thing that couldn’t be counted on, the bane of my homemade baking: my oven. It’s a relatively new, second-hand Frigidaire that came with my rental and which I have been living with (and swearing at) for the past three years. Our relationship is a complicated one. I can’t exactly get rid of it, but that hefty, white hunk of metal has done things to me that should qualify as grounds for divorce. (Our legal papers would read “irreconcilable differences”.) Cooking and roasting savoury stuff is fine. I manage. But sweets? It’s like playing Russian roulette. Sometimes it works out, sometimes you end up with burnt bottoms and wobbly insides. And a puddle of tears. So in moments when I’m suddenly inspired to make something like, say, madeleines, I sometimes don’t bother with my oven. Instead, I’ll call up my mom and ask if I can use hers – a convection masterpiece with electric touch-screen buttons and an extensive range of settings, like “roast” and “bread proof” and “self-clean”. It’s even got a warming drawer. Most importantly, though, it’s an intelligent piece of equipment that yields perfect results every. single. time.

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It’s a Saturday morning when I ask if I can come over to bake, batting my eyelashes as loudly as I can through the receiver. It’s just madeleines. I promise I won’t make a mess.I’ll even bring my own butter. She should be weary because she knows full well that my plans usually devolve as soon as I have free reign of the kitchen, turning everything upside down to concoct improvised soups and sauces and casseroles – oh, you have parsnips? what can I make with parsnips? – and just generally wreaking havoc. It’s my way of making the most of the time I have in her kitchen. Dad sometimes walks in, unaware of the cooking hurricane underway, and after scanning the piles of chopped vegetables and dirty dishes, asks with a voice that is half-concerned, half-curious, “whatcha makin’…Jules?”. Beating me to the punch, mom replies, “oh, LOTS of things”. She smiles with a grin that is equal parts amusement and eye-roll.

But because she’s preternaturally patient, generous and lovely all-round (and because dad usually rolls up his sleeves and helps with dish duty), she lets me come over and toss things around her kitchen and use all her implements without ever complaining. She doesn’t even flinch when I climb onto a footstool and start installing my tripod on her countertop, that gorgeous slab of granite which, in case you’re wondering, bares no resemblance to my dinky, melamine one. Baking at my folks’ place is like baking in a showroom kitchen. Except better, because they they don’t kick you out when you start laying out pots and pans and batter-covered spoons all over the counter.

They’re especially patient when they know that you’re going to share a freshly-baked batch of sweets with them. Like, say, a dozen madeleines.

I don’t know about you, but where I live, madeleines aren’t as ubiquitous as their French counterparts, the croissant, the brioche and the macaron. Most of the madeleines I’ve come across have been of the pre-packaged variety, sharing the shelf with the more popular May Wests and Passion Flakies in that phantasmagorical aisle of the supermarket that make children go all googly-eyed. The madeleines, for their part, always look as though they’d been there since World War II, so despite their sweetness and cake-like texture, even as a kid I was never really interested in them. (I might’ve poked at them a bit through the plastic – as one would inquisitively poke a toad in a glass jar – but that was the extent of our relationship.) Even now, it’s rare that I come across them in bakeries and cafés, and even if I do, I’m usually too distracted by the pains au chocolat.

But that was before I discovered raspberry and lemon curd madeleines.

It happened about two weeks ago, when, while searching for some tarte tatin recipes, I came across these nifty BBC videos of Rachel Khoo – a charming, impeccably dressed, British francophile who left her job in the fashion industry to move to Paris and bake cakes. (I know, it’s like out of a movie. Have your life-envy buttons been pushed yet?) I’ll let you work your way around the Internet and discover her on your own, but I’m bringing her up here because of the aforementioned raspberry and lemon curd madeleines. In one of the BBC videos, she demonstrates her take on these mini sponge cakes, using the traditional recipe of butter, eggs, sugar and flour, but then dotting each one with a fresh raspberry, followed by a squeeze of lemon curd into the raspberry’s “crater” once they’re removed from the oven. It’s a small flourish, but it’s genius.

It also proved that madeleines and I had just gotten off to the wrong start. Unlike the ones I’d seen languishing on grocery store shelves, these were soft and tender, lightly sweet and scented with threads of lemon peel. When you bite into it, the burst of raspberry meets the sweet and sour lemon curd and magical things happen. Particularly if they’re still warm from the oven.

One last thing: to achieve the traditional shell-shape, you’ll need to get your hands on a madeleine tin if you don’t already have one. They go for about $20 in kitchen supply stores. It might seem a lot to spend on a tin, but they do make a pretty little sponge cake. Besides, I’m sure you’ve spent twenty bucks on sillier things in your lifetime and now you’ll get to make sponge cookies that start out resembling breasts, but then end up looking like red-eyed cyclopses!

*you’ll be using the juice of this lemon to make the lemon curd
**given that the lemon curd takes a few hours to chill, you’re best to start by making the curd (see recipe below)

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350º F.

In a medium-sized mixing bowl, beat the eggs, sugar and pinch of salt until light and fluffy. Sift the flour and baking soda; fold into the wet ingredients. Fold in the melted butter and lemon zest. With a piping bag, squeeze batter into prepared fluted tins, making sure not to overfill (you can also spoon in the mixture if you don’t have a piping bag). Place one raspberry in the middle of each madeleine. Pop in the oven and bake for 12-15 minutes or until golden.

Lemon Curd (makes about 2 cups) – from Canadian Living

Note: you’ll likely have leftover curd after filling your madeleines, but you can use it as a sponge cake filling. Use within 2-3 days.

1 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup of butter

1 Tbsp lemon rind

2/3 cup lemon juice

4 egg yolks (you can freeze the whites for another use)

1/2 cup whipping cream (35%)

1) In a saucepan on medium heat, combine sugar, butter, lemon rind and juice. Stir until butter has melted and sugar has dissolved. Remove from heat.

2) Beat the egg yolks in a medium bowl and and slowly whisk in the lemon mixture in a thin stream to temper the mixture.

3) Return mixture to saucepan and stir constantly until it reaches a boil, then reduce the heat and keep stirring until thickened (about 10 minutes).

4) Pour into a glass bowl and once cooled, place plastic wrap on the surface and chill in the fridge (about 3 hours).

5) Whip the cream until you reach soft peaks and fold gently into the chilled lemon mixture.

6) Fill a piping bag with the lemon curd. While the madeleines are still warm, pipe the curd into each raspberry’s “crater”.